


Beating Me, Mistreating Me

by orphan_account



Series: Pay For His Behavior [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blow Jobs, Choking, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Feminization, M/M, Martial Arts AU, Masochism, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nipple Torture, Sadism, Size Kink, Slut Shaming, Smut, boxing au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton is the best boxer he knows, until he meets Washington, who puts him in his place in more way than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beating Me, Mistreating Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barricadebastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadebastard/gifts).



> gifted to lafayettes-baguette because i deleted my tumblr which was the only place we talk and i miss her and idk if this is what she is into at all - i'm so sorry if it's not but I wanted my next fic to be for you :)
> 
> PLEASE NOTE THE TAGS - there is some pretty questionable bdsm etiquette in this, very under-negotiated kink, lotsa getting off on violence in a kind of unsafe way, and just generally shit you shouldn't do in real life with real life people
> 
> on the other hand, I live to make A Ham suffer, so here we are
> 
> other stuff - I tagged this "boxing AU" but it's not really, I study a type of martial arts called shaolin kempo, which is a mixture of shaolin kung-fu and okinawan karate, and that's really what this is based off of - I talk about "gi pants" in this, which is the bottom half of the uniform we wear, and it looks like this: http://www.shopbushido.com/14-oz-deluxe-brushed-cotton-pants/ and this is what the gloves look like: https://www.uniquefit1.com/harbinger-wristwrap-bag-gloves.html?gclid=Cj0KEQjwlLm3BRDjnML3h9ic_vkBEiQABa5oeSXt494z83eoocxPGxX-z1TBTwyGJhwBRWVwRXDCNusaAvlb8P8HAQ
> 
> creds to digitalis who wrote "twenty buttons and a strap" which fucked me up and made me want to write something similar - this is heavily inspired by that, and tbh if you aren't squicked out by rpf you should absolutely read that first and probably only that because it's fucking incredible and will make you cry and also jerk off (my daveed thirst multiplied by at least twenty the day i read that fic)
> 
> also creds to rillrill who wrote the revolutionary whore series and "Quid Pro Quo" and basically got me shipping hamwash in the first place, you are also to blame for this, even though it's not set in the qpq verse
> 
> last warning, seriously, this is kinda dark guys, please don't read it if you think you may be triggered

Hamilton straps his bag gloves on quickly. They’re tight around his wrists, support because he can hit harder than the delicate bones in his wrists can handle. The movements are automatic, he's done it a thousand times, but the anticipation sits sweet in his stomach, hot and tingling in his wrists and down his spine. Adrenaline and arousal always blend together for him.

Alexander Hamilton knows how to fight. He's the best. He hasn’t truly lost a fight in years, since he figured it all out. He knows foot movement, he knows how to throw a punch. He knows how to size up an opponent, he knows how to take a hit (how to enjoy taking a hit, probably more than he should) and he knows how to give it back. So he hasn’t fought Washington yet. That doesn’t matter. Washington can’t be that good – more experienced, sure, older, sure, taller and heavier and stronger, sure, but Alexander is the best. He's an impenetrable wall, he's a strong wind, he's the ocean in storm. Washington won’t be able to touch him.

Alexander bows to Washington, slowly, shifts his feet to adjust to the feeling of the mats, because they're a little different than at his dojo, they’re foam, not vinyl, and a little older, a little softer, but that doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Alexander knows what the fuck he's doing. He's a fucking warrior. He hasn’t been beat yet, not by aggressive drunk guys who think they’ve got a right to him, not by idiot students who think they’ve got something to prove, not even by his teachers, not anymore. He's better than all of them. So this is new turf. So what? He always wins in the end.

Washington is big though – over six feet tall, probably, and jacked – biceps the size of Alexander's head and a torso like a barrel. He studies Washington's hands in his gloves, which are black leather and older even than Alexander's. Washington's fingers sticking out of the tips of the gloves are dark and thick, fingernails clipped short. There’s an elegance to the simplicity of his manicure, his cleanliness. He flexes his huge hand tightly and then relaxes it. The veins in his forearm stand out against his skin. Alexander feels a shudder go down his spine. Maybe once he's shown Washington exactly how badly he can fuck him up he’ll let Washington take him to bed. He’s strong enough to make it fun, even though Alexander will know the whole time how he could ruin Washington if he wanted to.

Washington shifts into a stance, spreads his feet slowly, bends his knees, lifts one hand to touch his glove to his chin, keeps the other midway up his chest. One dark eyebrow raises at Alexander slowly, slowly, and Alex smiles. Washington thinks he’s got something. He’s awfully confident. Of course, they usually are.

Alexander makes a point of never being the first one to swing, always let the person opposite him fuck up first, and then takes advantage of that mistake. Washington seems to have none of Alexander's reservations about starting a fight. He steps towards Alex, throws one slow swinging punch. Alexander ducks out of the way easily, and practically walk into his other fist.

Washington hasn’t hit him hard, and he shrugs it off, wiggles his torso around a little bit till his rib feels normal again. Clearly Washington knows what he’s doing. Nothing Alexander can’t handle though. He backs off, watches Washington more closely. He’s almost stately when he fights, fists loose, spine perfectly straight, looking more like a politician or a professor than any sort of boxer. He walks towards Alexander again, deceptively fast – Alex barely sees him move until he’s on top of Alexander, pushing him back against the mirrored wall behind him. Alex slips him easily, hits him three times in the ribs before he manages to turn, then dashes away just in time to avoid Washington's fist connecting with his jaw. Washington kicks as Alex darts away, and the ball of his foot connects with Alexander's stomach, which makes him grunt. He doesn’t double over though, don’t do anything other than step back to absorb the strike.

(He doesn’t try not to feel the arousal in his stomach exactly, because he likes it, he likes the way the pain edges towards pleasure, but it can be distracting in a fight, and it’s better to address it later, once Washington’s been dealt with.)

Alexander takes two quick steps in, kicks towards Washington's knee with the side of his heel, careful not to break, just bend. Once Washington's head is closer to Alexander's level, he lands two quick jabs against Washington's temple. The first catches Washington off guard, but the second barely makes it to the target as he stands abruptly, throws himself towards Alex and drops him to the ground.

Alexander can’t fight weight like that, can’t push the two-hundred something pounds of his mass off himself in order to stay standing. He can fall correctly, and he gets his knee in between himself and Washington as they tumble, and lands without hitting his head on the ground.

Fuck, though, that’s all the advantage he's got because Washington flattens himself on top of Alexander, goes immediately to turn his body, get into a half-mount, digs his knees and elbows sharply into Alexander's ribs on either side. Alex bucks his hips up hard, pushing off the ground with one foot and slamming the knee he's got curled between himself and Washington into Washington's stomach as hard as he can. It’s enough to throw Washington a few inches up and towards the top of Alex's head, and he wiggles down quickly, out from underneath Washington. He jumps up as fast as he can, kicks Washington in the stomach, hard, but that’s all he gets in before Washington’s up again, swinging hard towards Alexander's head, and he's disoriented enough that he lets the punch hit him. It almost knocks Alexander over, the hard knots of Washington's knuckles through the thin foam and old leather of his bag gloves bruising Alexander's cheek, knocking his head backward. The pain spreads out through his whole face, a throbbing, bruising feeling and he stumbles backward fast, trying to get away from Washington.

This has happened before, someone has gotten the better of Alexander like this, but it’s usually because he's having an off day, he's not focused, he's not paying attention. Usually as soon as he turns it on, he can manage to turn the fight around. That isn’t the case here. Washington is a wall. Alex can’t get near him to hit him. He rushes towards Washington and Washington kicks him away. When he does manage to get past Washington's tree trunk legs, his fists are huge and heavy. Alexander can’t deflect them at all – his only choices are hard, full-power blocks stopping Washington's weight with all of his, or dodging out of the way entirely. He's fucking exhausted and Washington is so fucking huge, and his timing is immaculate, and Alexander's head is swimming with the blow and the arousal that came with it.

Washington is fucking powerful, and he’s hurting Alexander, and he’s doing it unabashedly, no pity or mercy or shame about knocking around a someone smaller than him. And Alexander fucking loves it, loves the way Washington's fists feel when they hit him, loves the jolting of his organs against each other, the shuddery angry scared turned on feeling, as Washington hits him again and again, getting the better of him every time.

Who the fuck is this guy? Where did he train? Alexander wants to be a wall like Washington is. He also sort of wants Washington to pin him up against the nearest vertical surface and have his fucking way with him.

The very next moment, Alex gets his wish. He's allowed himself to step too close to the wall, and Washington catches him squared up and he throws his forearm against Alexander's chest and slams him, hard, into the wall. Alex forgets to tense his neck and his head cracks backward into the plaster and he moans, louder than he means to. He knows what that noise sounded like. There isn’t much of a way for it to be interpreted as a grunt of pain.

Fuck.

But Washington doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn away in disgust, doesn’t even hesitate. He lands one hard punch into the side of Alexander's ribs – god, he’s so fucking good, because it _hurts_ , hurts like hell, but it isn’t going to break or shift anything out of place, and it probably won’t even bruise too badly, and fucking shit Washington must know so much.

Alexander never stood a fucking chance against him, not for one fucking second. He was going to lose from the moment he started this.

Washington pins Alexander's wrists to the wall above his head with one hand, places the other against Alexander's sternum. Alex thrashes hard against his bonds, but he can’t even move his arms. Washington's knee goes between his legs, and Washington is tall enough that it lifts Alexander onto his toes. Most of his weight is on Washington and he's grinding down onto Washington's huge thigh before he can even think about it. Fuck, nope, he shouldn’t do that.

He stops himself too late, looks up from Washington's torso into his eyes. “Let me down.” The words come out even, and Alex is grateful for that, that he doesn’t sound scared or angry, or worse, breathy and desperate.

“You thought you could beat me.” Washington's voice is low, and he’s a little short of breath from the fighting, but it sends shivers through Alexander all the same.

“I was wrong. Put me the fuck down.” Washington's thigh is distracting – Alexander is spread out over it, and if he tilted his hips just a little, he could get some pressure on his dick, just a tiny bit, to ease this fucking ache –

But he won’t. He has self control.

“If you know you were wrong, why are you still fighting?”

“I’m not fucking fighting you anymore, I give up, put me down.” Alex is getting frustrated now, and he wiggles again, trying to get himself free.

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m _not_.”

Washington lifts the hand on Alex's sternum up to where his wrists are crossed and pinned against the wall, drags one callused fingertip down Alex's forearm, pointing out the tension. “You’re straining right here, fighting against me, not giving in.”

“That’s because – “

“Did I ask you to _fucking_ speak?” Washington's voice is still flat, but anger flares on his face abruptly and Alex feels his throat tighten.

The hand on Alexander's forearm is working it’s way down, still trailing so lightly it feels less like someone else and more like Alex's own shivers, and he hates to admit the gentleness does as much to him as the roughness. 

Washington's finger catches on the sleeve of Alexander's t-shirt where it’s bunched around his shoulder. Washington wraps his hand around Alex's bicep. It fits all the way around. His fingertips touch. Alex turns his head, partly to look at that spectacle, partly because he can’t meet Washington's eyes anymore.

“You’re still tense here, too, Alexander. Why won’t you relax?”

“Fuck you, man.”

“Yes, and that, too. If you really believed I won the fight, believed in superiority in battle meaning superiority in all things – you act like you do, your ego is certainly big enough – than you would show more humility. You swear too often. This place is sacred. You should be respectful to it, and to me.”

“Of course,” Alex spits, pissed off now, “fuck you, _sir_.”

Washington slaps him. His glove mutes most of the sting, but the bar across the palm thunks into Alexander's cheek and knocks his face sideways.

Then without giving Alex any space to breathe, Washington's hand is on Alex's thigh over his thick rough cotton _gi_ pants, and he pushes his knuckles hard into Alex's straining quad. “And here,” Washington adds, like this is the final stop in some tour, “relax. Why won’t you stop fighting? I’m giving you all the support you need, am I not?” He steps closer to Alexander to elevate the angle of his leg between Alex's. Alexander's feet lift all the way off the ground. The movement pushes his thigh against Alex's dick just right and he can’t stop himself from whimpering at the relief it brings.

“That’s what I thought.” Hand wrapping around his thigh, high up, thumb dragging over the inseam of his _gi_ pants. “ _Slut._ ”

“In ancient times, the tribe that conquered a village used to take the women of the village as slaves. Sometimes they were required to perform other tasks, sometimes they were just sex slaves.” Washington's hand keeps creeping up, only inches from Alexander's dick now. Washington's thumb is caught between his leg and Alexander's, and he pushes his thumb hard into Alex's inner thigh, hard enough to bruise, makes small circles, rubbing his leg raw with the rough fabric covering it. “Cumdumps. Whores. Holes to fuck.”

 _Fuck_ , this is fucking hot. Alexander hates himself for liking it, for wanting Washington to call him more of that awful shit, because it’s obvious that he is the sex slave Washington is talking about, Alexander is the prize for winning the fight.

“I won, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Alex's voice comes out high and girly.

“What did the conquering warriors get?”

“Prizes.”

“What sort of prizes?”

“Sex slaves.”

The hand that’s been making it’s way up Alex's leg reaches his dick. He drags a fingertip slowly over the head of Alex's hard cock, sending shivers racing all over him.

“What do I get, Alexander?”

Washington is so fucking sure of himself, so fucking positive that Alex is going to say Washington can have him, let Washington take him as his prize, that he can’t help it. He's not broken yet. His bruises no longer hurt so badly. Washington can’t take whatever he wants that easy. Alexander takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know, Washington, what do you get?”

It happens so fast Alexander barely processes it. Washington lifts Alexander up in both arms and throws him onto the floor, on his back. It winds him, his diaphragm seizing up, and Alexander panics, fighting to breath, thrashing under Washington's tight grip on his shoulders.

Just as he manages to inhale again, Washington's huge hand wraps around Alex's throat and squeezes and fucking shit, Alex can’t fucking breathe, he's still panicking from having the air knocked out of him, and Washington shoves his knee hard between Alexander's thighs again, rubs it hard against Alex's dick, and everything is hot and tight, and there’s a painful redness in the corners of his vision.

Washington removes his hand. His leg stops moving.

“What do I get, girl?”

“Me, fuck, you get me, I’m sorry, fuck, please –“

“And what does that make you?”

Washington's face is very close. His eyes are huge and dark. He’s expressionless, almost unaffected.

“A slut.”

Alex can feel his face burning hot when he says it. He's never minded being called a slut before but the combination of the word _girl_ and the look of utter fucking disgust on Washington's face, like Alex is three-day old garbage, like Washington can barely believe he’s dirtying himself by touching him, does horrible things to Alexander.

Washington shifts his weight up, kneels over Alex's face. Alex watches as Washington slowly unties the string of _gi_ pants, drags them and his boxers down over his hips, his huge thighs. Washington's dick is dark and hard as iron and fucking gigantic. There’s no way that shit fits down Alex's throat. “What do slutty little girls do?”

Despite Washington's size, despite a gag reflex Alex has never quite gotten under control, there’s only one answer to the question.

“Suck cock.”

Washington slaps him again, hard, and says, “Ask nicer.” Like Alex needs to beg for Washington to fuck his throat. (He will though. He wants it. He wants Washington's dick in between his lips, he wants it down his throat, he wants to choke on it, he wants it, he wants it, he wants it.)

When Alexander hesitates, Washington's hand goes to his neck again. Washington pushes very lightly downwards – enough to make Alexander cough a little, but not enough to cut off any air flow. Alex can feel the enormous amount of strength Washington isn’t using. “We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way.”

Never let it be said Alexander Hamilton has any fucking sense of self preservation at all.

“Please, sir, may I suck your cock," he says, deadpan, sarcastic, lets Washington know how unimpressed he is.

Washington doesn’t choke him, which he's grateful for. That shit isn’t hot, it’s terrifying.

At least, Alexander is grateful until Washington sits back on Alex's stomach, finds Alex's nipple almost incredibly precisely through his t-shirt, and grabs it, hard. Washington's huge forefinger and thumb pinch Alex like a vise. He's had clothespins hanging off his nipples for whole scenes that hurt less than this does.

And then Washington twists, hard and savage, and Alex screams.

“Ask me, baby girl, or I'll keep hurting you,” Washington says, and when Alexander can’t get his breath back fast enough to beg for it, Washington does it again, twists further, teaches Alexander new levels of pain, pain that isn’t sexy, pain that’s just pain, and Alexander is screaming, screaming until Washington lifts his hand off all the way and the blood rushes back into Alex's abused skin and he's gasping, unable to make a sound. With the rush of new blood comes more arousal, masochist and dangerous, burning hot in his stomach, desperate and curling and filling him up, and he releases it in the form of words.

“Fucking shit, please, I need your dick inside me, doesn’t matter where, fuck my mouth, fuck my asshole -"

"Your asshole?" Washington interrupts, one cool eyebrow raised. "Nice girls don't let men fuck their asses."

"My cunt, then," Alex pants, tears stinging his eyes, "Fuck my pussy, please just fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck me," he's almost chanting, and Washington doesn’t take his eyes off Alexander, though his face doesn’t change, “I need it, I need to be claimed, I need to be the slave you keep calling me, fuck, you fucking own me, I need your dick so far down my throat I choke, please, please please please I need it I –"

Washington's hand comes to the hinges of Alexander's jaw, pinches, opens his mouth easily. Alexander lets it fall open, shaking and desperate, and then Washington is forcing his cock into Alex's throat.

There’s no moment to adjust, no pause to accept the pace, just Washington's huge dick thrusting in and out, raping Alex's mouth, brutal intrusion that he can’t do anything about, except lie there and take it, try to cover his teeth with his lips so they don’t scrape. Every time Washington's dick hits the back of Alex's throat he gags desperately, coughing, turning red with the need for air. Washington pulls out of his throat after what feels like eternity, his swollen dick rests heavy on Alex's tongue. Alexander feels it pulse, feel his balls seize up against his chin and then Washington comes onto his tongue, salty and thick and so _much_ , too much maybe, it fills his whole mouth and he's about to swallow since he can’t spit with Washington's dick still between his lips, when Washington lifts his chin up so Alex's eyes meet his. “Don't swallow till I leave.”

Then he slides his still-hard dick out of Alexander's mouth, stands up and tucks himself back in. He ties his pants again, runs a bare foot lightly over Alexander's cock, and then walks away.

Alex swallows as the door slams behind him, gasps over and over, trying to get oxygen, trying to calm himself. His stomach turns over, and for a horrifying moment, he's afraid he'll puke, that his gag reflex has been too abused and he's gonna throw up.

The moment passes. He lies panting on the mats, shaking with arousal, with adrenaline, with desperation. He can’t make himself stand. His arms are heavy with exhaustion, but he lifts one as fast as he can manage, unties his pants, slides his hand into his boxers and grinds his palm down over his cock. He comes, still shaking, less than twenty seconds later.

*** 

The aftermath of it all isn’t that bad. Alexander sees Washington later that night, at an employee dinner in some fancy restaurant, and Washington smiles at him gently. At some point, Alexander gets up to go to the bathroom, and when he comes out Washington is waiting outside the room. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks for checking up.”

Washington's smile is slow across his face, and his eyes are hot on Alexander. “No problem.”

It’s a little while before they make it back to the table.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry this is awful i'm sorry


End file.
